Proditor Pro Falsi Parti
by Exileian
Summary: He was a commander before he was an outlaw. He was a soldier before he was a commander. They were both traitors in their own right traitors in a city betrayed.
1. In Which the Story Begins

Proditor Pro Falsi Parti 

By Sakki 

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine. 

~~~ 

             There were certain disadvantages to being a commander. One of them was having to keep track of every single one of your troops. Currently this was the dilemma of the commander of the Krimzon Guard. 

            "We've checked the port, sir. He's not there." 

            "What about the bazaar?" 

            "Not there either, sir. We're pretty sure he's in the stadium." 

            "Get a unit in there and drag him out." 

            "What if there's a race going on?" 

            "Then wait until it's done and take him out then. I'll be at the Hip Hog." 

            "Yes, sir." 

            He did not watch his men get on their zoomers and head for the stadium, which was a glowing mountain in the not-so-distance. He did not wait for them to leave his line of sight before he turned his back to them and started walking away. He did not give them any last instructions, mutter any last curse words at them, or show them any kind of respect. He was their commander, and they were his soldiers; they were to follow his orders without question, as he had done for years until he had achieved his current rank. 

            Instead he walked into the Hip Hog Saloon, the sleaziest, dirtiest, most repulsive run down bar in Haven City, and therefore the most popular. He skirted around the rather large group of people clustered around a makeshift stage in the center of the room and slid into the nearest blue-lit booth to wait. This one happened to have a bulb that was getting ready to burn out. 

            It was only natural for him to sit in the one booth with a dying lamp. Men like him were normally attracted to dark, secluded corners in grungy bars where they could look mysterious and threatening. 

            Men like him. 

            Men like Torn. 

            There were three people on the 'stage', he observed. One of them was a vicious-looking brunette, who was holding a microphone with one pale hand and clinging to a metal pole with the other. The guitarist was a redhead with surprisingly dark skin for someone who lived in Haven City. Their third member, the drummer, was blocked by the singer's twisting body, so Torn couldn't get a good look at him or her. 

            Why did he occupy his time in such a strange way, investigating the looks of irritating young people who were insistent on marking their place in the world by singing about things people already knew about? 

            He shifted his eyes across the crowd, wondering if he could pick out possible rebels or dissenters from the Baron's cause. Usually it was the young masses that were the most easily influenced, but this worked both ways – the Baron could frighten some into following him like sheep, but Underground sympathizers were very persuasive sometimes. 

            He knew. 

            He'd arrested a few in mid-lecture. 

            "Thank you!" the singer said suddenly. Torn blinked once – just once. He hadn't realized the song had ended. "We're Metal Poison, and we play here as often as we can! Make sure to come see us next time we're here, because this is the best joint in town!" 

           Metal Poison. How many ways could he take that? The first and most obvious was that they were a poison for metal, and therefore Metal Heads. But if you put the accent on the start of 'Metal' and 'Poison', it made them it made them seem like they were a metallic form of poison. This could make them allies of the Metal Heads and he would have to arrest them. But what if they had purposely named themselves as so and were trying to be confronted by him or his men so that they could gain popularity? Their fans would make an uproar, they'd get video coverage, people would feel sympathy, and then riots would erupt. He, of course, would have to put them down, probably with brute force. Or maybe they had named themselves as so knowing that they might get arrested, but also knew that he hated dealing with riots, and so they assumed he wouldn't do anything. Of course, one should never assume because – 

            Ok, time to stop thinking. 

            Where the hell was Erol? 

~~~ 

            He could feel it. 

            That tension that hung in the air like a solid block of suffocating darkness. 

            He could feel it so well, so much better than any other person in the city, so easily that it _hurt_ like all hell. It was a heavy kind of hurt, like his lungs were filled with that suffocating darkness that wouldn't let him breathe properly. He took one quick breath, as deep as he could manage it, and let it out slower so he could savor the moment where he didn't have to breathe at all. It was times like that that made him feel like a god – so powerful that he didn't even need to do a mortal thing like breathing. 

            The pain was still there. 

            "All racers must be at the starting gate." 

            He could taste it, too. Taste it – coppery like the city he lived in – and smell it – burning like the fires he helped set to smash the Underground. 

            Fires he _helped set. _

            Not that he set, _period_. 

            "The Class Three Race will begin momentarily. All racers should be ready by this time." 

            Eight racers. 

            Five laps. 

            He would be the winner. 

            After all, he always was. 

            "Ready." 

            He pulled his riding mask down over his face; the world turned into a fractured and bloody picture within seconds. 

            "Get set." 

            He revved up the engine on his zoomer. 

            "Go." 

            He slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He shot ahead of three other racers and collided with a fourth. 

            His eyes were hidden behind an insect's glare, but even through the red glass the other racer could see those eyes of nothing but insane hatred. 

            Temporarily, the unfortunate man lost his focus. 

            "Well, it looks like this race is off to a violent start! Already racer number 7 has smashed racer number 3 off the track and into a wall – don't worry, we'll get an emergency team in there as fast as we can!" 

            He refused to remove his foot from the accelerator. It didn't matter how dangerous this was. He courted Danger and he spat on Death. The walls raced toward him and ran away from him. Sound escaped his ears, leaving him in a deathly silent world of metal and blood. 

            _Are you near me? he wondered, feeling his skin crackle and burn with cold. __Are you following me still? _

            He saw the unimaginable; another racer was on his right, trying to pass him. He could not have that. Oh no, he could not have that at all. 

            The racer slammed into him. He jolted to the left. He slammed into the racer. The racer jolted right. 

            "Racers number 7 and 5 are fighting for first place! It's amazing, folks – we're only on the second lap – oh, excuse me, third now – and we've already got a fight going on! This doesn't usually happen until the fourth lap." 

            Shortcut. 

            He threw himself over the racer, not caring that the back end of his zoomer caught the other man's head and pulled him out of two races at once. For a moment, he thought he saw a blinding shock of green behind him. 

            But he was only seeing things. 

            _I want to win. _

_            I win. _

_            I win I win I win. _

_            Don't laugh at me. I win. I am a winner and you do not laugh at my win because it is not a loss. _

_            Only one casualty today, Erol? _

_            I thought you could do better than that. _


	2. In Which there is a Brief Argument

Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki 

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine. 

~~~ 

            "Skipping out on duty to go racing." 

            "Mhm." 

            "Abandoning your post without a replacement." 

            "Yeah." 

            "Disobeying strict orders from your commanding officer." 

            "Mhm." 

            "Not listening when being spoken to by your commanding officer." 

            "Mhm." 

            "Being an incompetent jackass." 

            "Mhm. Wait, what?" 

            "Paying attention now?" Torn said, glaring at Erol from the other side of the booth. "Because if not, I'm sure the toilets could use your company." 

            "I'm listening." Erol leaned back, regarding Torn with disdainful contempt. 

            "This makes seven times in the past three weeks you've gone to the stadium during an assignment. It makes the Baron look like he's got a useless army, makes me look bad, and makes you look like you can't handle the simplest task." 

            "That's not what the public thinks." 

            "The public doesn't matter," Torn hissed through clenched teeth. "What matters is whether you obey my orders or not. And I specifically told you _not to – " _

            A tall glass, filled with a dark liquid, was thumped down on the table between Torn and Erol, closer to the latter. Both men moved their gazes to the formidable silver form known as Sig, whose hand was still on the drink. 

            "Krew sent it." He shrugged in the direction of his employer. "Says it's thanks for winning the race earlier." 

            "Ah…tell him thanks." Erol reached for the drink as Sig turned his back on the table. At that moment, however, Torn reached out and seized the collar of Erol's tunic, hauling the man halfway across the table so they were face to face. 

            "If I _ever catch you at the Stadium during your assignments again, Erol, you will be out of the army and into the Beggar's Guild faster than I can fry a baby Metal Head. __Is that clear?" _

            Erol glared right into his commander's infuriated eyes, feeling his ears lower in a submissive manner. 

            "Crystal," he hissed. 

            There was a moment in which time shuddered around the two men, wishing that one of them would shatter into a million pieces to stop the violent tension surrounding them both. 

            Eventually, Torn broke the barrier; he threw his opponent back and stalked out of the booth. 

            Erol gave the finger to Torn's retreating back. 

            Once his commander had left the bar, Erol took his drink and tasted it. Not good, not bad, plenty of alcohol, a little too much water, a little like _blood running on the ground, over soil and over metal, the blood of so many innocent people and Metal Heads, cracked skull gems, bullet shells, energy discharge, skin and oil and blood and hate and fear and jealousy and determination and everything he'd ever felt in his entire life, his entire worthless life. _

He chewed thoughtfully on an ice cube that had slid from the drink into his mouth. Erol was probably the only person who didn't complain about the state of the water in all of Haven City. It wasn't exactly the most sanitary of water; compared to what the Baron got, it was like yakkow shit in a bucket. But hey, if he wasn't dead, it probably wasn't lethal. 

            Probably. 

            "Another successful race, ey?" said Krew, floating over to where Erol was sitting. His body oozed out over the sides of his current hover device, leaving his legs to hang uselessly. 

            "Yeah." Erol sipped his drink again. 

            "Killed a man, you did. I like your style." 

            "You've said that before." 

            "No problem in saying it again, is there?" Krew chuckled, a hoarse, thick sound. 

            "I wouldn't know." _Coming from you, it's practically an insult. _

            "I made a lot of money on that bet, ey. Win the next race and I might be able to get you a Peacemaker morph for your gun." 

            "Really." Erol inspected his now half-empty glass. "Where did you get it?" 

            "From a…friend." 

            "Illegally, then." 

            "Nothing's legal in this city anymore, ey. You should know. The Baron and you Krimzon Guards are the only law left." Krew fanned himself furiously. "You've reduced me to using the sewers!" 

            _Fitting.__ "You have my deepest sympathies," Erol said wryly. _

            "No need to be mean now, ey," Krew wheezed. "By the way, I've got a shipment coming in pretty soon, and I'll need a clear path to get it here. D'you think you could get your commander to, maybe, look the other way?" 

            Erol laughed. It was short and sharp, causing Krew's smile to turn into a surprised frown. 

            "Torn? You want me to tell Torn that he can ignore you for just a little while because you've got an illegal shipment coming in? You want me to even try?" 

            "Don't need to be so obvious, ey. Or so loud." Krew glanced at the door. Erol tipped his head back and finished off his drink. 

            "Thanks for the poison. What was it?" 

            "Second best in the house." 

            Erol cringed inwardly. _If that's the second best, then I'd hate to try the worst. _"When I win the next race, I'll expect the best you've got." 

            "Think you'll win, ey?" 

            Erol stood up and slid his racing mask back onto his skull. 

            "No." 

            "No?" 

            "I _know I'm going to win." _

            The icy emphasis Erol had put on the word _know struck Krew into silence. It was filled with determination, which was common for racers, but it was also filled with a hatred few people could match. _

            The only question was, hatred for what? 

            "Then you won't be needing luck, ey?" 

            "No." Erol smiled at something to Krew's right, something invisible. "No, I won't be needing luck." He strode out of the Hip Hog, leaving its owner to ponder over his possible choices in saner racers. 

            After all, who needed luck when Death and Danger were constantly at your side? 


	3. In Which we meet Ashelin

Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki 

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine. 

~~~ 

            Torn knew he shouldn't be so angry, especially when it came to Erol. He should be annoyed, or irritated, but not angry. Erol wasn't worth anger. Metal Heads were worth anger. 

            So why did his chest hurt? 

            All he had to do was say it. "You're out." That was it. Two words. Two words and Erol would be out of his way forever. Out of the guard, out of his mind, out of anything and everything he knew. Except racing. It was so simple, so easy, so…so _obvious_ that any idiot would have done it long ago. 

            Yet somehow, he hadn't done it. 

            He rammed the Blaster mod onto his Morph gun and fired at a group of Grunts that were getting too close for comfort. They flew back; their bodies shattered, leaving behind traces of Dark Eco and liquid-filled Skull Gems for those who needed them. Torn ignored them and stomped on through the flooded Pumping Station. 

            Why couldn't he do it? Why? _Why? _The question plagued him like a gnat. It wasn't a question of whether he wanted to or not. He had the desire to do a lot more than just kick Erol out of the Krimzon Guard. He had the lawful and logical reasons to remove him without even having to bring it up with the Baron. He had the power to do it, too – he was the commander, and only the Baron ranked higher than him. 

            The want, the proof, the power: that was what he had. That was all he had. And that was all he needed. 

            But Erol continued to be a Krimzon Guard under Torn's command. 

            Three Grunts lingered on a crescent-shaped beach around one of the giant water tanks. One of them approached the water out of sheer boredom and was promptly shot in the head. The other two jumped up, their tiny brains registering that shots equaled danger. 

            Torn was not in the mood to play nice, so he shifted his gun to the Vulcan Fury mod and riddled the Metal Heads so full of bullets that they left six inch imprints where they fell. 

            He was about to cross the crescent of sand when: 

            "That was a waste of bullets." 

            Torn craned his neck up to see who had spoken, although he already knew who it was. A lithe figure leapt from an above cliff and landed a few meters away from Torn. 

            "Don't lecture me," he snapped, not looking at his accuser. 

            "What crawled up your ass?" was the saucy reply. 

            Now he looked over, both eyebrows drawn together. 

            "Shut it, Ashelin. I'm not in the mood." 

            "Really? I couldn't tell." Ashelin strode over and peered at Torn's face. "Let's see. You're pissed as hell, stiff as a steel two-by-four, and you smell like a combination of alcohol and zoomer grease. Let me guess – Erol." 

            "You're psychic," he said dryly, glaring into her gold eyes. "And you've got a nose like a Croca-dog." 

            "I should slap you." 

            "What's stopping you?" 

            "Your gun." 

            "That's never stopped you before." 

            "I've never slapped you when you were in a homicidal mood before." 

            "…I…" Torn struggled to call up a memory that would counter this verbal attack, but came up with none. Ashelin shot him a sly smile and turned away. 

            "So. What did he do this time?" 

            "What do you think?" He followed Ashelin as she stepped over to a small set of islands leading to the crescent beach. 

            "Just checking. With that crazy bastard, you never know what he'll do next." 

            "Hn." 

            Ashelin kicked one of the fallen Metal Head bodies that had not yet broken into a thousand pieces. "So did you kick him out?" 

            "No." 

            "Why not?" 

            "I don't know." 

            "How hard can it be, Torn? Just walk up to him and say – " 

            "I _know!" he snarled, kicking a Skull Gem as hard as he could. "I know how goddamn easy it is!" _

            "So do it!" Ashelin snapped. 

            "I can't! Every time I try to say it, I…can't." 

            "You can't?" 

            "Something tells me not to. Something…" He struggled for words that would describe the heavy feeling that descended on him every time he tried to remove Erol from the guard. "…I just can't." 

            "Bullshit. You just don't want to." 

            Torn whirled to face Ashelin. 

            "Why," he began, his voice dangerously low, "Would I _not_ want to?" 

            "Because you…" 

            Ashelin faltered under Torn's furious gaze, wishing briefly that she hadn't brought up the subject. 

            "Because I what?" 

            She quickly regained her composure and glared. 

            "Because you know he's a damn good shot, and because every squadron in the guard needs a psycho to balance out the squares." 

            There was silence. 

            Torn stared at Ashelin, who stared back. 

            And who was struggling to keep a straight face. 

            Both commanders burst into unrestrained laughter. Ashelin collapsed where she was standing, and Torn staggered over to the metal tank wall to support himself. Neither one could properly speak for lack of air. 

            This went on for quite some time before Torn finally managed to stop laughing. 

            "That was terrible," he coughed. "Erol…a good shot…yeah right…" 

            "He's the only psycho we've got, too…" Ashelin couldn't stand up straight. "Oh god, my stomach…" 

            Torn made his way over to Ashelin and helped her up. She eventually sighed and brushed a few braids away from her face. 

            "Did I cheer you up?" 

            "Unfortunately." 

            "No need to thank me, your face says it all. Want a ride back to the city?" 

            "Nah, I've got some more Metal Heads to fry." 

            "If you're sure." Ashelin twirled the keycard to her zoomer between two fingers. "Hey, if you're not busy tonight, would you mind meeting me down at the Hip Hog?" 

            "What for?" 

            "I need a reason?" She grinned and leaned in toward Torn, causing him to lean back. "Besides, I heard one of the new bands is playing there tonight and I can't _wait to see you dance." _

            Torn narrowed his eyes. 

            "I don't dance." 

            Ashelin sighed and turned away. "You always say that. Well, be there, ok? 20:00 sound good?" 

            "If the Baron doesn't decide to hold a meeting before then, sure." 

            "Don't skip out on me." 

            Torn watched her vanish into the sparse foliage of the Pumping Station and rubbed his head. He wasn't particularly fond of women, and Ashelin hadn't been an exception in the beginning – especially after he found out she was the Baron's daughter. Of course, that had led him to wonder why she was only a commander instead of in his job – second in command – because the Baron had been known to give in to favoritism. Surely his own daughter would be given a high station… 

            But no, she had worked her way up to the position and was quite satisfied with what she had. That was what began his grudging respect for her. What had been continually increasing it was her innate ability to appear just when he was ready to explode and make him laugh. 

            Prior to Ashelin's arrival, Torn had never laughed. And because she could do this, he had started to like her in a way that could be considered – he hated this word – romantic. 

            And sometimes, that really, really pissed him off. 


	4. In Which there is an Attack

Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki 

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine. 

~~~ 

            When Erol walked into the briefing room in the Krimzon Guard headquarters, he was greeted with a round of sarcastic applause. 

            "He didn't kick you out? Hell, you're one lucky bastard." 

            "This is, what, seven, eight times now?" 

            "I didn't think Torn had that much tolerance." 

            Erol felt a muscle on his forehead pulse. 

            "I've got one more chance to redeem myself," he said, glaring at the room's occupants. "I hope you have ideas as to what this will be." 

            "Huh? What do you – oh, right. Assignments." An elite guard, sitting in the corner near a radio, pulled a few papers out of his pocket. "The Baron's got word of a group of Underground bastards that are planning to blow up the old ammo dump. He wants us to take care of it." 

            "When's it planned?" 

            "I don't know." The elite held the papers out to Erol, who snatched them with enough force to tear one. "Hey, watch it." 

            He wasn't listening. His eyes were fixated on the letters scrawled across the papers. 

            _Underground Insurgents _

_            Ammo Dump _

_            Planned Attack _

_20:30_

_            New Moon _

Erol looked up at the clock on the wall. It read 16:47. He clutched the papers tightly in his hand and headed for the stairs which led to the barracks. 

            "Hey, where're you going?" 

            "I'll be back." 

            _Underground Insurgents _

_            Ammo Dump _

_            Planned Attack _

_20:30_

_            New Moon _

_            Squadron Assigned: Alpha 7 _

_Mission__: Stop Attack _

He shoved the papers into his pocket. 

            …119, 120, 121, 122… 

            His feet stumbled slightly over nothing; he cursed them and continued walking. 

            …133, 134, 135, 136… 

            There was his door, another dull, blank rectangle of black in the iron-gray walls. Erol rammed his keycard through the lock and shoved open the door. 

            His calendar, his calendar…where was it… 

            Erol's room was not like the other soldier's rooms. Most of them had magazines and ammo cartridges strewn across every flat surface; the younger ones had posters of seductively dressed women on their walls. Ones who had been in the ranks for longer often had papers tacked up that listed their kills and awards. 

            But if you walked into Erol's room, you'd wonder what went wrong. The walls were covered with gouges and bullet holes. There was a standard bed, desk, and dresser, but these all looked as if they had been attacked by a very toothy animal. The floor was littered with papers, books, magazines, newspapers, and empty ammo cartridges. If one shifted some of these aside, they would see that the floor was as mangled as the walls, with bloodstains added to make it look like the room was alive – or had been, once. 

            His calendar had to be around here somewhere… 

            A few articles from newspapers and magazines were ruthlessly attached to the wall above the bed. Erol ripped a few of them down in his frantic search only to find nothing. 

            "Where is it?!" he snarled, smashing his fist into the headboard of his bed. A chip of wood flew off and hit him in the forehead. 

            In that instant, he closed his eyes and remembered a race that he had lost once, a long time ago, when he was new to racing, when there were people better than him, more agile, more quick, more _alive than he had ever been, but soon they would be more dead than he was because he learned very quickly that he did not like to lose. _

Erol took a deep breath. He cleared his mind of old thoughts and opened his eyes. He turned around and looked at his desk, which was covered with papers he had written on. 

            Slowly, carefully, Erol walked over to his desk and shifted aside a pile of sketches for a new zoomer. 

            There was his calendar, with the monthly picture of an old Race Champion brutally slashed through. 

            A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he lifted up the dog-eared calendar. 

            "Let me see," he mused, putting a finger on the first of the month. "A recent discovery, so it must be this month…the last new moon was…" He flipped to the previous month and spotted his tiny, indiscernible notes of the new moon. "So…that means it must be…" 

            The smile on his face grew.  

            The other guards were a little surprised when Erol returned to the headquarters with his armor on and his gun in his hand. 

            "What's up?" one of them asked. 

            "There's going to be a party tonight," he said, loading his gun with a fresh cartridge of Vulcan Fury bullets. "Down at the ammo dump." 

            The elite sitting in the corner narrowed his eyes at Erol. "And you're going to go there alone?" 

            "No. You're all coming with me." 

            There was dark muttering among the other men. A few of them glared at Erol, not wanting to take orders from him. The elite stood up and approached Erol, glowering down at him. 

            "And what're we going to do when we get there?" 

            Erol rammed the cartridge forcefully into place. 

            "Crash it." 

~~~ 

            The streets of Haven City were eerily empty when Erol arrived in front of the ammo dump. He glared up at its infinitely tall depths, wondering briefly why anybody would build something this obscenely tall. 

            A voice crackled in over his transmitter, informing him that the others were in position and ready for the attack. 

            "Good. I'm out in front. I'll follow them in and give you the signal." 

            He slid the tiny transmitter behind his ear and crept into a ditch in the road. One of the rickety bridges provided him with more than enough cover, so he crawled under it to wait. 

            Erol strained to listen for any sound of an approaching person. His ears twitched and shook, trying to hear everything in the city. 

            There was the sound of Krimzon Guards on their regular patrols around the city…there were zoomers being ridden, most in a dire need of muffling…there was the sound of a roaring crowd and custom racing zoomers tearing around a track… 

            A slow hiss escaped Erol's lips. He'd forgotten about the race tonight. Class 3, pre-semifinals, his only chance at the title for the next three months. Anger boiled in his veins, streaming through him and giving him the energy he needed to beat the Underground bastards. 

            Speaking of the Underground… 

            Footsteps echoed through the streets and bounced off the buildings. Erol's ears froze. He sunk down lower into the shadows of the bridge, waiting for his _prey to get close enough targets to enter the building. _

            They were looking around, obviously nervous about getting caught. They never once looked down; they never once thought that maybe, just maybe, there was a Krimzon Guard right under their feet. 

            When they entered the ammo dump, Erol slid out of the pit and slunk after them. 

            Never once did they hear him, or see him, or even know he was there. To them, he was just another shadow on the wall; his lightly armored figure was able to hide in places normal Krimzon Guards couldn't fit into. 

            They approached the main ammo holding sector and looked around. One of them whistled. 

            "That's a lot of explosives." 

            Erol tapped his transmitter. 

            "Now." 

            A group of Krimzon Guards, all heavily armed, appeared out from behind tanks of eco and explosives. 

            "Freeze!" 

            The Underground fighters stood in place as if they'd grown roots. This was not what they had expected. 

            But, like all rebels, they decided to go down fighting. 

            They pulled out their guns and charged, firing as they went. Erol saw the immediate bloodshed and not the immediate danger and dove right in. He tackled the one fumbling with their gun instead of shooting them; right now, a quick and painless death was not what he was in the mood for. 

            He slammed into the figure and pinned them to the floor. There was a mask drawn up around the figure's face, covering their nose and mouth. For a moment, Erol hesitated to attack. He wanted to know what was under that mask, but before he could find out, the fighter threw a punch in his direction. 

            He didn't have time to think; he rolled out of the way to avoid it, and suddenly he was engaged in a fistfight. The other guards and Underground fighters were engaged in their own battles. Nobody noticed Erol and the single inept fighter trying to kill each other without the use of weapons. 

            Nobody cared. 

            The fighter charged at him, but Erol dodged the attack easily. In return he seized the fighter's ponytail as they went past him and hauled them back. 

            He saw, for a frozen instant, the pain and the shock, the fear, the anger in the fighter's eyes as he raised his fist to start a barrage of punches. 

            And it excited him. 

            The first punch sent the fighter into the floor; those that followed broke bones and blood veins. Any attempt to try and prevent the attacks only brought on more. Blood splattered from various wounds on the fighter's face and arms onto Erol. 

            Again and again he slammed his fists into the fighter's unprotected body. Again and again he heard the sickening crack of bone and muscle shattering. Again and again he felt the broken bones splinter, the blood spray across his face, the _fear and pain radiate from his victim, his prey, his only outlet of rage that would allow him to let out everything he hated, all the Metal Heads that had killed his 'friends', his family, all the times he'd felt such a burning rage against Torn or the Baron or the world in general, all the times when Death had taken hold of his body or visited him in his dreams and told him that he was just a puppet, that he would never go anywhere, that only Fate kept him alive, all the times he'd wanted to kill __but couldn't and the fear in those wide brown eyes made him laugh, the pain made him want to laugh even more, he wanted to make this child suffer like nobody had ever made him suffer before – _

            "Erol!" 

            Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him back, away from his target. He struggled for a moment, desperate to get back to his prey, to make him suffer, to feed, to kill, to…to… 

            Erol blinked and stopped fighting. 

            The Underground fighters were all dead except for the one he had attacked. This one remaining fighter was covered in blood and bruises, but still alive and conscious. As Erol stood up and shook of the other guards, he noticed that the mask covering the fighter's face had been ripped off during the fight. 

            The fighter was a teenage boy. 

            "They've resorted to using kids to do their work," snorted one guard, picking up the bloody fighter by one arm. "Well, at least one of them is still alive." 

            Another guard came over and aided the first in carrying the fighter away. Erol watched them leave. The few remaining guards looked at him in a slightly suspicious manner (although it was hard to tell through the masks). 

            "What was that?" 

            "What was what?" he snapped, wiping blood off his face. 

            "You didn't shoot him." 

            "Your point?" 

            "Why not?" 

            Erol paused, looking down at the floor, at the bloodstains. 

            "Because…I felt like it." 

           None of the other guards said anything. One at a time, they walked away and left Erol alone in the silent ammo dump. 

            After a moment of standing in the silence, Erol reached down and lifted the fighter's bloodstained cloth mask off the floor where it had fallen. 

            _A tribute to Danger, he thought, __and to Death. _

He crumpled it up in one hand, wishing it was alive so he could hear it scream and feel it die. 

            So he could kill it. 

            So he could _kill_ it. 


	5. In Which the Baron is Introduced

Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki 

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine. 

~~~ 

            Torn wasn't pleased to report to the Baron that the Underground's feeble attempts to make a strong move against him had once again been foiled. 

            Well, it wasn't that he was upset about that. He was tired of dealing with the Underground, and to hear that they had been put down once again was a relief. What he wasn't happy about was the fact that he had learned this from Erol. 

            Erol, who had approached him just outside the barracks, with blood splattered across his face and armor. 

            It had been Erol, according to the other soldiers, who had figured out from simple thought that the attack was taking place that night instead of in two weeks, when the new moon was supposed to be. Torn hadn't been happy to learn that Erol had done something right for once. 

            But he had his job. He was to report this to the Baron and receive orders from there. 

            Calmly, Torn strode to the elevator and rode it up to the Baron's throne room. As soon as the doors opened to reveal the glass-coated hall, he stepped out and walked across the room. He was careful not to look down. He kept the secret of his occasional bouts of vertigo to himself. 

            The Baron was pacing in front of his throne, reading a paper. His form was large, but it was well muscled and toned, unlike the disgusting mass of lard known as Krew.  He was an imperious man. He looked like a good ruler. 

            Ignoring the military skills, he wasn't. 

            "Baron Praxis, sir." 

            "Commander." The Baron nodded slightly, not looking up from his paper. "You have a report?" 

            "The Underground's attempt to destroy the ammo dump in the slums was successfully countered. All but one of them was killed, and that last one is currently in the prison awaiting interrogation." 

            "Excellent. This should put them off for a while." The Baron stopped pacing and turned his attention to Torn. "I was informed that the attack wasn't for another two weeks." 

            "One of my men has apparently been keeping star charts and knew the new moon was last night." 

            "Really…" Torn watched as the Baron turned and glared down at the city from one of the glass walls. "I wonder what sort of soldier would spend his time watching the skies." 

            "I'd rather not go into specifics." 

            The Baron offered a tiny half-smile, half-grimace. The man was constantly pained due to a recent injury on his arm, inflicted during an attack on invading Metal Heads. Torn himself had suffered wounds from the Metal Heads, but fortunately, none of them were crippling. 

             Although sometimes, he wished they would be. 

            "This should keep those Underground bastards down for at least a little while." The Baron turned back to Torn, his face set with determination. "Get men working to interrogate the prisoner. I want answers as to where the Underground's hideout is. I want to know who the Shadow is." 

            "Yes, sir. I'll get a squadron on it." 

            "Also, I want you to stop the hoverboard punks." The Baron pulled a few sheets of paper from his pile and handed them to Torn, who took them automatically. "They're causing too many disruptions and damage to the city." 

            "I'll have the boards confiscated and the citizens detained." 

            "Don't detain all of them. I want some killed on the spot." 

            Torn's gaze shot from the papers to the Baron, suddenly frozen in a sort of shocked horror. 

            "What do you…you want me to _kill _innocent civilians?" 

            "We need to set an example for the others. They need to know that they will die if they disobey my laws." The Baron stroked his beard with his right hand as if contemplating something. "I'll need to send out the recording of it, and register it as a new law…" 

            "Sir, I can't do that. I can't just kill them because of the way they act." 

            There was a tense silence in the air. The Baron turned to look Torn in the eyes, glaring much harder than he usually did. Torn glared right back, although with less fierceness. 

            "Do not argue with me, Commander," said the Baron quietly. "Or else I will use you as an example as to what happens to those who disobey me." 

            Torn's glare wavered. He didn't want to be killed right now, nor did he want to kill. But it was one or the other; either a few rebellious citizens who had only lived a decade or two, or him. 

            His ears sank slowly, the only indication of his submission. 

            "They…will be killed." 

            "I'm glad you agree." The Baron turned his back on Torn, who suddenly wanted to rip the knife from the sheathe on his back and plunge it into the vulnerable spine in front of him. 

            But he didn't. 

            With the papers still clutched tightly in his hands, Torn turned and stalked out of the throne room. In his subdued rage he ignored the glass floors and dizzying view of the city below, forgot his vertigo, disregarded the guards who questioned how the meeting had gone. 

            As much as he hated the people who lived in Haven City for their ignorance and stupidity, he had no desire to kill them. 

            Not like the Baron. 

            Not like Erol. 

            Not like the Metal Heads. 

            He picked up the intercom on his zoomer and turned it on. 

            "Alpha Seven, I need you to commence with the interrogation of the prisoner you captured last night. Alpha eight and nine, you will report to the commercial district immediately to eradicate the hoverboard problem." 

~~~ 

            "So tell me. Why don't you like to kill?" 

            "You sound like a psychiatrist." 

            "That's the point, Torn." 

            "And what are you trying to get out of this?" 

            "Oh, I don't know. Your childhood traumas…psychological issues…even your hidden, deep-seated fear of heights." 

            "Hey, how do you - " 

            "I live in the Palace, Torn. I've seen you walk in and out of there all the time and you always avoid looking down. _Always._" 

            "That doesn't mean I'm scared." 

            "You just admitted it." 

            "…shut it, Ashelin." 

            "Answer my question and I might. Why don't you like to kill?" 

            "Do _you_ like to kill?" 

            "Metal Heads, yes." 

            "What about people?" 

            "Oh, is this what it's about?" 

            "Your father made me kill a group of teenagers for no reason other than to 'set an example'. Should I enjoy that?" 

            "No. Why didn't you say that right off?" 

            "Say what?" 

            "That you didn't like killing people." 

            "I don't know. Stop interrogating me." 

            "I'm not interrogating you. I was trying to get to the root of your problems, but you already had it. You were just too lazy to tell me." 

            "Shut it, Ashelin." 

            "Every time you say that, I can just imagine the little gears in your head giving off sparks of anger because they know I'm right." 

            "I said shut it, Ashelin." 

            "Hey, that was fierce." 

            "You're being a bitch." 

            "Excuse me while I go cry." 

            "You're excused." 

            "You'd better buy me a drink when I get back." 

            "Why should I do that?" 

            "Because it's something a gentleman does." 

            "A gentleman buys a woman a drink." 

            "Excellent deductive skills." 

            "I'm not doing it." 

            "You're saying you're like Erol?" 

            "No, I'm saying you're not a woman." 

            "What? Oh, you callous, typical male pig. I should castrate you with this." 

            "A mug? It's not even broken." 

            "The duller the item, the more feministic the attack." 

            "I think I should leave now…" 

            "Oh, no, you don't. You're buying me a drink, Torn." 

            "Or you'll castrate me with a mug?" 

            "Exactly. I want a Seven Point." 

            "You're a caustic bitch." 

            "And you're a complete jackass." 


End file.
